Page 23 of His Dark Vendetta

I braced myself, palms flat on either side of me, wishing I had something to hold onto.

She glanced over her shoulder. Her red lips parted, and her hands twisted in her hair as though in the throes of ecstasy.

My dick strained against my slacks, fully erect and aching for release. Temptation plagued me, the urge to impale her with every rock-hard inch of my desire testing my restraint. But I held on, determined to let her continue her game of seduction, let her know who was in control.

The beat picked up, and the mood shifted with it. The air crackled with urgency like we’d transitioned from foreplay to the main event. Siobhán moved faster, and her hands slid down her legs to rest on her thighs. She braced herself there and, with a flip of her hair, thrust her ass back and down until it hovered above my lap.

With each circle of her hips, her ass brushed my erection. And just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, she braced herself on my thighs, dug her fingertips into my quads, and lowered herself down.

I grunted, a stilted sound from trying to cage the animalistic growl percolating in my lungs.

Her head snapped around, eyes wide and smile knowing, and ground her ass into my hard-on. The friction was everything I needed and nowhere near enough.

“Fucking tease,” I growled.

My fingers twitched around the cigar. I brought it to my lips, not wanting her to know how close I was to losing control.

She laughed and pressed herself into me, wiggling her ass as she did it. “A bet is a bet,” she purred and leaned back until her head rested on my shoulder. She tilted her face enough to see me, putting her lips dangerously close to mine. “Just holding up my end of the bargain.”

Siobhán filled my senses. The weight of her body. The movement of her hips. Her smell. I buried my face in her hair and nuzzled her neck beneath her ear. The sweet, fruity scent of her shampoo cut through the cigar smoke and enveloped my world.

“You missed on purpose, didn’t you?” The question came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

She replied with a husky chuckle that reverberated through her back and into my chest. “You did call me your little shamrock.” She slid down my front until her biceps rested on my thighs, then twisted around and knelt between my knees. “Looks like your good luck charm worked.”

Holy fuck.

She unbuckled my belt with slow, methodical movements.

I sucked down my cigar, needing to do something with my hands and calm the heat racing through my blood.

She unbuttoned my slacks.

I set the cigar in the ashtray and pressed my palms into the bench on either side of my thighs.

She pulled on the zipper, achingly slow, and raised her eyes. They burned with seduction and desire. With a final tug, the minx lifted the corner of her mouth in a devious smile.

She reached into my boxers and pulled out my dick. It jerked at her touch and became impossibly harder. She wrapped her delicate fingers around its base and took in my size. Her pupils dilated with genuine surprise, and she licked her lips. She met my eyes and held them—held me—and ran her tongue up my hard length from its base to where pre-cum leaked from the tip.

My hands fisted in a desperate attempt to maintain control, but when she wrapped those ruby red lips around the head of my dick, I groaned, deep and guttural. My body tensed and relaxed with the sweet release of having Siobhán Connelly worshiping my body as surely as I worshipped her.

* * *

I cracked the window,blinked my eyes, and rolled my shoulders, pissed at myself for letting the image of that Shaughnessy rat get the better of me. That had happened a lifetime ago before I knew the truth—before I knew about her lies.

I exited the highway and stopped at the light at the end of the off-ramp. Siobhán sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. She sat up straight, but her puffy eyes and smudged mascara destroyed the perfect picture she painted for the world.

My anger resurfaced at what might have been had she not turned out to be a two-faced rat. I strangled the steering wheel, not sure what was pissing me off more—Siobhán’s bullshit or the memories that had tormented me for over a year.

The light turned green. I stepped on the gas.

Wide lawns, white picket fences, Cape Cod houses—the suburban sprawl north of Boston all looked the same. The only differences between neighborhoods were the upkeep of the lots, the size of the houses, and the kinds of cars parked in the driveways. Most of Saugus housed working-class families—a lot of Italians—who’d escaped the city to find safe, affordable housing. But there were pockets of affluence, and that’s where we were headed.

I knew better than to speed on Walnut at that time of night, but it made the short drive off the highway slower than I wanted. I turned onto the narrow, wooded road on the outskirts of the Lynn Woods just south of Walden, and the ache of nostalgia crept up my throat. The familiar pang of loss that hit every time my mind wandered to my father reared its unwelcome head between the highway and my house.Hishouse.

The two-story colonial at the end of a cul-de-sac overlooked Birch Pond. It was set back from the others, providing an unobstructed view of the water from every south-facing bedroom. I’d grown up in that house, at least for the first six years of my life. My father purchased it for my mother after he found out she was pregnant. He’d wanted to make it our family home. “Your mother always wanted a quiet house on the water,” he used to say, his eyes distant and expression pained.

Fate had other plans for us Morettis.

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